Crimson

Chapter Twenty-Four

His frame spilling outside of his pit, this zes' tears to streamed, wistfully down his scales. Cascading upon each other a lament to loss. The agony of losing an integral individual. Despite his fearsome visage, the enlarged frame, which expressed strength, voicing the promise of violence, he longed for peace. His soul, untarnished by intended violence, wept viciously after discovering the loss of the seeress. In all his cycles, throughout every occurrence, he never faced grief from losing someone so close to him.

Dorn of Guile, dark in tone, dense with strength, huddled in his pit, one whose size could fit a whole zes eron and a medium seywaw comfortably, allowed scarlet tears to rain down his face as he silently sobbed, his hearts bursting with agony. Muddling the blue soil underneath him, it formed a bright violet puddle under his head. Sinking softly into the mud, he allowed the ground to support him, to take the pain from his scales as a low throbbing sounded from his body, a soliloquy to lives lost, too soon.

Unaware of what transpired around him, the seywaw patchers gathered in each other's arms, binding to each other's pain, seeking comfort in the arms of friendship. Their former sobs, loud and resonating around the bedrock surrounding them, now exhibited soft whimpers. Sri unearthed her eyes from her talons, looking around her, noticing something so startling it causing her to jump up forgetting her sorrow. Pligal, the young legionnaire did not inhabit his pit. Shooting around her gaze, once more, she only spotted the densely built Dorn.

Before she could alert the others to the loss of Pligal, the one ordered to stay in the throng, to maintain his presence within the patcher den, her attention turned to a soft clacking behind her, originating from the path, quickening its pace exhibiting great urgency. Within a few moments, the individual reached the doorframe with labored breaths, surveying the area. Its orbs squinting, sharpened, heightened to examine the full detail of the area. Scouring the den until his dark orbs found his prey. A shadow fell over his face, a malevolent hunger draping over him. Taking a step backward, Sri moved by reflex as this monster came into the den.

Moving towards Dorn, Sri noticed the familiar garb of the san over him. Blackened, burned, sleeveless vests formed from the skins of a behemoth without scales, one, which shook the ground with each step, yet lacking the capacity for much intellect. Only six eron were needed to fell this beast, gentle as it is, its passing became swift, calculated.

Unable to stand between the san and the legionnaires, the patchers, ordered to maintain the illusion of absolute rule in this training yard, became adept at watching the san cruelly fill their patching den with the broken frames of recruits. Secretly, Sri loathed the work of the san. Some more than others in the training area, but this one, the san known as Zilterra, became well known in the land. His cruelty, exhibiting the ignorance of compassion, caused many to avoid him. Rumors spread of his murderous intents when his recruits started disappearing from the codex, the roster holding the names of each legionnaire under the tutelage of the san. Four, in this cycle, vanishing without evidence to support a reason they absconded.

Truth, darker than the others could imagine, Zilterra ordered his recruits to carry the bodies of their comrades to the portal. Deep within the bedrock, on the other side of the training yard, a slide, of sorts cut into the dense bedrock to meet the acrid sea. Unable to touch it, it opened into a cliffside where a long drop to the acid sea remained underfoot. Here, all manner of rubbish from the training yard met its demise. Falling into the sea, dissolving all that met its cruel touch, the embrace of death. Zilterra, cruelly, ordered the comrades of the condemned to place their frail bodies, still containing threads of life, into the steep slide, forever eradicating their forms, secretly condemning the comrades to, unknowingly be the weapon towards the demise of their weakened Legionnaires.

A chill ran down Sri's spine as she saw the dark intent spread over his visage. The make of one, who relished in the pain of others. As he witnessed the huge frame of Dorn in his pit, a wide smile spread over his scales. Gazing at the grief cascade off this being, Zilterra's orbs widened as he surveyed the Guile clan's seventh lying fractured, a testimony to the clan's weakness.